The way was short, the wind was cold, The voyage on Mr. B. had told; His yielding knees, his tottering gait, Showed what had lately been his fate; His sunken eyes, his face so pale, Bespoke the scarcely-finished gale. His bag, in which he took such joy, Was carried by a dockside boy; And undistributed remained The store of handbills it contained. He had not far to go to gain The platform where the London train Stood waiting, and with wistful eye He saw his welcome bourne so nigh; And soon sank down, with yearning face, Into the nearest vacant place. It was a dark and fusty den, In which were huddled several men, Who gave, as Barnum came, a groan, Which died away into a moan, As, with their chins close to their knees, They watched their new companion squeeze Into his seat, and try in vain Room for his legs, or arms to gain. When he had struggled moments twain, His wrath, which he could not restrain, Impelled him suddenly to rise; But no, he found, to his surprise, ’Twas useless, he was now, alas! Part of a packed and groaning mass. And as he, too, felt weak and ill, He gave one groan and sat him still; Till, moved by his increasing ire, He cried, “Allow me to enquire If we poor victims truly are Now seated in a first-class car?” “We are!” they moaned, then Barnum said, “I’m sure I’d much prefer instead Inside a cattle-truck to ride!” “You’re right!” his fellow martyrs cried. “Then why,” exclaimed P. Barnum “then, If you are true, brave Englishmen, Do you submit without a battle To thus be served far worse than cattle?” Then, strengthened by his indignation, He uttered this denunciation:―― “BREATHES there a man that England’s bred, Who never to himself hath said, This is a scandal to my land? Whose wrath has not within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From travelling on a foreign strand, When he’s been put to ache and freeze In such disgraceful trucks as these? If such there be, one soon can tell That ’tis the shares he holds impel Him to condone the line’s disgrace; Or ’cause connection he can trace With some large holder of its scrip, Or one on its directorship. That any other man of sense Should find conceivable pretence So great an outrage to defend Does probability transcend.” _Truth, Christmas Number_, 1883.